Short Stories

Conflict

Craving attention, she was unable to remain calm in such a situation. Her anger was almost uncontainable; somehow, her words still managed to fail her. She couldn't understand how he had let himself go, how he had lost a grip of reality. Heat rose to her cheeks, her gaze adverted to her feet; not before eying her drenched homework under his Jack Daniels glass. The tension in the room was building - he wouldn't have noticed, he never noticed. The scent of alcohol travelled through the humid air - it wasn't uncommon. "Meredith, darling," He spoke softly. He wasn't required to say much more, she sighed. "Father, there's no more." He shook his head gently, denying the facts, "The supermarket, sweetheart," His yellowing teeth shone, "the cash is in her wallet." It was Meredith's turn to shake her head, "Father, there's no more." She wasn't willing to listen to his lethargic ranting, so she continued to make herself dinner, ignoring his discontented grunts.

Meals didn't consist of much. Father hadn't worked for a day since mother left. I was much too young for employers to take me seriously, which proved to be a slight issue - no one understood the position I was forced into. What I had learnt while surviving, practically alone, was that: stale bread tastes better toasted, non-perishables are best friends, and snacks aren't always necessary. I had also learnt that the consumption of merely alcohol alone allows a full grown male to survive for at least a week; that came from observation. Mother's idea of breakfast would consist of a meal fit for a king, a meal something like the one she had on her last day. She always ensured our cupboards were fully stocked. It was impossible to starve in our household, I had thought.

My father's sober motto was, "always do what's right. It'll gratify half of mankind, and astound the other." Whilst his slightly tipsy self repeated, "it is not necessary to change; survival is not mandatory". The idea of survival was our original goal, after our loss. Recently, it was merely a distant thought, if a thought at all. And while my father's head lolled from one side to the other, snores echoing from his chest; the only thoughts present in my mind was whether my choice was the right choice, whether my father's lifestyle was exactly what was preventing survival or whether it was time for change once more. The small suitcase thrown in the doorway was the only answer I needed. I was prepared. The bag had all of my necessities for survival.

Like my mother always said, a plan is never a great plan, until the last execution. The sound of his snoring rocked the walls of the tattered house. A sigh escaped my lips; it was time. I crept towards the suitcase and placed my hand gently over the zip, silencing the sound. My breath quickened. His snores stayed rhythmic. Shaking hands clasped the contents of the suitcase. Change is inevitable in such a life, survival is not. A ship will never sail until the anchor is removed. With morbid thoughts filling my mind, I stood, and shuffled beside father on his makeshift bed. The cold metal sent shivers down my spine. I trained my breath to match his snores. Rhythmic. Steady. Calm.

The pistol was content in my sweaty palm. The weight of the small metal object became more as each second passed. The countdown began. Breathing in, closing my eyes. Breathing out, holding his hand. A tear escaped from my eye. "Goodbye," I whispered. The smell of alcohol removed all doubt. I didn't hear the bang.

Her eyes were hazy. The blood splatter reached the farthest walls. The left side of my face was coated in alcohol, and my daughter's thick, crimson blood. The metallic smell stung my nostrils and cleared my head. Bile rose to my throat, before emptying my stomach's content on Meredith's shirt.

After her mother's passing, Meredith had become my rock. My views and decisions became blurred almost immediately after my wife's death. And as I gazed upon my breathless daughter, I saw all my mistakes in her malnourished body, her torn clothing... her alcohol scented breath. The cold of the metal on my temple quickened my breath. I sighed, "I'm sorry".

*July2015